


Hold My Life

by skyholdherbalist



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Friendship, Multi, Music, Other, Romance, dumb punks, many beers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-02-05 05:54:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12788466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyholdherbalist/pseuds/skyholdherbalist
Summary: A Dragon Age Modern AU.  Bands, bars, bookstores, a lot of music, dumb punks falling in love.





	1. Down About It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Alistair cares about is his band, but they may not make it to the next show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a modern Thedas with no magic - but all the same music we have, which is pretty magical if you ask me. 
> 
> The characters are all around their DA2 Act 1 ages—so early-mid 20s—except Teagan, who is 40ish and Sera, who would've been too young but I just wanted to have her in my band (sue me, I love her).

 

The Runes couldn't get it together. 

They got to the middle of "Fiery Promise" three times, and every time something went wrong: first Alistair kicked the cord to his tremolo pedal loose, then one of Sera's bass strings broke and slapped her in the hand.She acted like it didn't hurt, but her hand had a nasty red mark. 

Now on their third try, she had completely zoned out, as far as Alistair could see, and lost the rhythm.It was not a complicated song.He couldn't write complicated songs.Something was really off. 

Cullen had slowed down the drumbeat to guide her back, but it wasn't working.Alistair watched her as he sang the second verse.She looked down at her bass with a suspicious grimace, playing gingerly, as though she were afraid it would bite.He quit singing and cut his guitar as they got to the pre-chorus."All right, stop," he mumbled into the mic, waving his hands."Take a break.This song is obviously cursed." 

Reaching backward, he lifted the strap over his head and placed his guitar in its short stand near a stack of amps.He walked across the cluttered basement, which he'd taken over for a permanent practice space (there had been nothing in it but old files and even older furniture from when the house had been Eamon's), and rummaged through the fridge, pushing past ancient takeout boxes full of mysterious substances and half-empty soda cans.He could get uptight about practice, frustrated when things didn't go right, and it put him in a foul mood.He knew all that. 

This was different.Sera wasn't vibing with them at all.It wasn't the first time they'd had to pull her back into the song from her own world.He and Cullen barely had to speak to get in the same groove—but they had known each other for ten years.Sera joined the band a few months ago, and she was the third bassist they'd had in a year.They could cover for her at shows—they just played louder than her, and despite their best efforts everything came out as a mass of noise anyway. 

He sighed, and pulled out two beers and a bottle of water. _We need more practice together, that's all_ , he thought.Which was easy for him: he didn't have to work.Cullen was at the Recovery Center all the time, and helped his sister besides.And he was sure Sera did more than bartend.It wasn't like he could pay them to be in the band, even if he technically had enough money to do that.He would, though.The band meant a lot to him.It was kind of the _only_ thing to him. 

He gave the water to Cullen and the beer to Sera.She pushed up the floppy sleeves of the fuzzy, striped sweater she wore and twisted off the beer cap, wincing.Alistair winced, too."Is your hand ok, Sera?" he asked. 

She wrinkled her nose."Yeah.Thanks," she mumbled, and drank the entire beer.He looked at Cullen, puzzled, eyebrow raised.Cullen shook his head and stood up, swinging his arms to stretch them out.His blond beard was thick these days.It gave Alistair, working toward something that might be called facial hair, serious beard envy.

They heard heavy footsteps on the stairs coming down to the basement.It was Teagan, laden with bags, holding his keys between his teeth.Setting his beer on an orange amp, Alistair went to take some of the bags from him."What's all this?" he asked. 

With a now free hand, Teagan pulled the keys from his mouth, spitting."Weekly shop," he said, taking his haul to the fridge.He opened it, scowled, and then shoved in a few cases of beer and other, less interesting things."Most of it's for the kitchen, though," he said, brushing the shaggy auburn hair back out of his eyes.He looked around, confused."I don't know why I brought it down." 

Alistair didn't know either."The fridge could use a cleaning," he said."There are some science experiments gone mutant in there." 

"Oh," Teagan said."Maybe... you could do that later?"

"Or you." 

"Uh, yeah."Teagan picked up the other grocery bags and headed to the stairs."The office can have a person come in to clean.I'll tell them," he called over his shoulder as he walked up.

The office, his father's company.Cailan's, now, actually.The company owned the house—Alistair and Teagan just lived there.He felt weird about having someone clean up after them.Still, avoiding what was in that fridge might be worth it.

Sera and Cullen were laughing.He was fiddling with the gain knobs on the amp head, she was telling him about her latest project.Whenever anyone came into the bar asking for what she considered a snooty cocktail—and why they thought they could find that in Blackwall's was a mystery—she only served screwdrivers.Sidecars, Negronis, Aperol Spritzes—they got screwdrivers.Blackwall hadn't fired her yet, so he must have thought it was funny."Anyway," she was saying, "she was beyond already.Said it was the best whiskey sour she'd ever had.Big tip." 

"Don't people complain?" Alistair asked as he approached.He strapped on his guitar again and plugged in the amp cord. 

She giggled."I tell 'em to talk to Bull.And... they don't."Bull was the bouncer at Blackwall's.He made Alistair a bit uncomfortable because, first of all, he was a massively massive Qunari and, secondly, Bull always made it a point to tell him, with a smile, how much he liked redheads. 

He shook the implication of what that meant from his mind and smiled."Why don't we try 'Don't Sleep'?It's pretty slow.It'll help us get back into it," he said, trying to be encouraging.Sera shrugged, as well as she could with the heavy bass hanging from her neck. 

Cullen sat back down on his stool and checked his watch."I've got to head out after this, though." 

"Working on a Sunday?" Alistair asked.

"No," he said, pushing his glasses up."The Center is finally remodeling the old courtyard.I've just offered to help them clear it out."He rolled up the sleeves of his faded flannel shirt, and took his drumsticks in hand, ready to play. 

Alistair sighed and placed a hand on Sera's shoulder."We've raised a good boy, haven't we, Sera?"She snorted and rolled her eyes. 

"Don't Sleep" went much better.It was a noisy, shoegazey instrumental.Cullen barely had to play, the bass was a few sustained notes.And Alistair could play instead of sing, which he didn't love to do and wasn't very good at—but Cullen, whose voice was a choirmaster's dream, flatly refused.So the song was almost all Alistair's guitar—he played passionately, if not so skillfully—and a glut of effects pedals: fuzzy chorus, drawn out reverb, distortion seeping into the phaser.The sound swirled around him, the song seemed to play itself.When it was over, he felt as if he were just waking up.

After Cullen said his goodbyes, grabbed his ratty backpack and ran upstairs, Alistair thought he could work with Sera on timing, since they were alone.She was already unplugging her bass, her back to him,but he asked, "Hey, can we try that bridge part of 'Fiery Promise' again?" 

She turned to look at him, her face blank.Sera could be a lot of things, but not usually blank.It worried him, but he wanted to get this right, especially with a show coming up."I just think we could—"

She let out a groan of absolute rage, the likes of which he had not heard since Isolde dumped Teagan."This is no fun!You take it so seriously!"Her face red, she gripped her choppy hair in her fists.

Why was that cause for complaint?"Yeah, I take it very seriously, Sera."He felt himself getting defensive, his voice sharp."Why wouldn't I?"

"Ugh," she said, turning around, unstrapping her bass."I thought it would be a laugh.Stupid fun, y'know?" 

"But..."He didn't know what to say.He thought it was fun.Wasn't it fun?"I thought you liked being in the band.You came back after you quit that one time."

"Yeah, I did."Zipping the case around her bass, she yanked it from the floor, slung it over her arm and faced him."But now—"She groaned."It's like work.Even work's more fun." 

"You work at a shitty bar, that's not fun."

Narrowing her eyes, she shook her head angrily."And you know I haven't pulled one girl from being in a band?"She threw her hands up."I thought it was, like, a guarantee!"

Maker, was that the only reason she was in the band?He felt... used."That's not the point, Sera!" he snapped. 

"Maybe not for you!I just wanted to have fun.It's no fun anymore, Alistair," she sighed.She pushed past him toward the stairs."Anyway, I can get more shifts at my _shitty bar_.Some of us need the money," she muttered. 

"Oh, come on, Sera," he pleaded as he followed her.He stood at the foot of the stairs and watched her stomp away, her loose boot laces flopping.Then an alarming thought occurred to him.“Wait!" he shouted."Can we still play at Blackwall's next week if you're not in the band?" 

Without turning around, she flipped him off, and slammed the door behind her. 

He slumped onto the bottom stair.The Runes were fucked without a bassist.And he didn't want Sera to be angry with him.He was wrong, it wasn't "Fiery Promise" that was cursed—it was him.

After he was sure Sera had gone, he went upstairs.The basement stairs led up to a den.Since the company owned the house, and sometimes they used it for parties, this is where they kept all the stuff they didn't want visiting financiers to touch: video games, table football, the card table that was meant for Wicked Grace but instead housed an eternal game of Monopoly. 

He took a second, shorter set of stairs up and headed for the kitchen.The main level of the house was bright and modern, open, reflective spaces and huge, sunny windows.It was a nightmare if you were hungover. 

Teagan was standing at the kitchen island, poking at a laptop."Sera left," he said without looking up. 

Alistair sighed and went to the fridge.He took out all of the sandwich things and dumped them on the counter.The mustard jar tipped over and rolled noisily away.He just shook his head at it."She quit the band."

"Again?" Teagan asked.

"Yep."He took a plate from the cabinet above him and threw together a messy sandwich."We're screwed now.We're supposed to have a show next week." 

Teagan sipped his beer."Hmm."

Then Alistair had an idea."Unless," he said, turning to Teagan, pointing at him with his sandwich."Unless you could play?Could you?"He took a bite, then pointed the sandwich back at Teagan.

Teagan only laughed."No," he said, but Alistair nodded yes."No," he said, more firmly, "no, no, no.Those days are long behind me.And I'm happy about it," he said with the finality of someone who was anything but.

Alistair found it difficult to pout and chew."Come on, I'm your ward or something.I think that means you have to do what I ask."

Shaking his head, Teagan closed his eyes."That's... not what that means.And you're not a ward, this isn't the Storm Age."He turned back to his computer."You have a trust fund, and I just have to oversee it until you're 25." 

Daydreaming about the ridiculous things he could do with all that money had, in the few years since he had learned of it, faded in its appeal.Teagan let Alistair do whatever he wanted, anyway.He was like a brother, not a trustee.He was nicer than Eamon had ever been, and, though it was a low bar, anything was better than military school.Eamon signing over his trusteeship to Teagan was one of the best things that had ever happened to him.He should thank Isolde next time he saw her—which was hopefully never.He stuffed the last of the sandwich in his mouth. 

"And it's not life or death," Teagan was saying.“You’ll find someone to fill in.Someone who, you know, actively plays music."He looked confused by something on his laptop and shut the lid."Go see some shows," he said, turning around."Talk to people." 

That was not, to be honest, Alistair's favorite activity."Erm, yeah," he said, brushing crumbs from his patchy non-beard."I suppose I could do that."But he wouldn't have to talk to anyone if Sera hadn't left.He growled, the only way to genuinely voice his frustration.Sera had that right, anyway."I'm just—"He growled again.It was better than talking.

Teagan scratched his neck."Well, while you're unhappy already, I need you to come to the office tomorrow for a board meeting."

"Oh, Maker, no.I keep telling Cailan I don't want a job."

"It doesn't matter whether you _work_ there or not.You have a significant ownership stake, and that means you must attend so many board meetings, and there are only four left in the fiscal year—"

"Blah blah blah, I don't even want to understand what you're telling me."He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.How had this become his life?“I hate going there.Can’t you go in my place?A proxy, isn't that it?"

Teagan looked defeated."And the terms of your trust are that you must attend in person," he said wearily, as though he'd said it five thousand times, and Alistair could not prove he hadn't. 

He turned to the window, but the way the house was situated, at the top of a high hill, the promised beautiful view was not of the surrounding village, but squares of painfully bright blue, empty sky. 

"It's not that bad," Teagan offered."You get lunch."

Alistair was skeptical of what "lunch" meant in such an environment."Do I have to wear a suit?"

Teagan shrugged."I don't."

Why was he fighting about it anyway?He didn't have anything else to do."All right, I'll go," he sighed." _But_ you have to come with me tomorrow night to Blackwall's.I have to find out if our show is still on, and someone's got to be playing there."On a Monday his chances weren't good, but these were desperate times."Someone who will look upon me with pity." 

Teagan leaned on the counter, his chin in his hand."You really want to bring the old guy along?"

Alistair laughed."You're not old."Then he considered it."Are you?"

"Yes, I think I am," Tegan sighed. 

There were more flecks of gray in his reddish beard than Alistair had noticed before, the lines under his eyes a little deeper, his smile less ready than when Alistair was a boy, and Teagan would visit on breaks from touring with his band.He taught Alistair to play guitar on those breaks, and the Satinalia when he was eleven, Teagan gave him a guitar of his own.So that was the Teagan Alistair saw—a scruffy, skinny punk with messy hair who could smile through a hangover and was nicer to a lonely kid than anyone else.

He pulled two beers from the fridge and gave one to Teagan."Ah, it'll be fun, old man.Maybe you'll meet a nice old woman and you can share cozy evenings by the fire."

Teagan shook his head and laughed."Doubtful." 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my rock band AU and thank you for letting me indulge myself! 
> 
> Inspired by my love of bands in fiction, my need for a fluffy escape, and my own misspent youth. 
> 
> [First chapter playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/v61emingwq8jayp21w8vwe73k/playlist/5tZ131n1ryFBSWm19kz4nF) \- The Replacements, Superchunk, My Bloody Valentine, Sonic Youth, The Lemonheads
> 
>  
> 
> [I'm on tumblr too much, hang out with me](http://skyholdherbalist.tumblr.com/)


	2. Color Me Impressed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things begin to change for Cullen.

Cullen was one of those people: the kind who have the bass turned all the way up on the car stereo, the kind who sing and emote and play air instruments with enthusiasm—until they see someone watching them, the kind who keep the music playing loud enough to drown out everything.  Driving his weathered—a generous description—pickup truck downtown, he had just seen the sign for the East Denerim Recovery Center ahead and moved to shift lanes when the buzzing phone in his pocket made him jump.  Startled, he slapped the stereo knob to turn it off.  The truck lurched as he tried to turn into the parking lot and dig into his pants for the phone, barely missing a nearby car.  "Maker's breath," he sighed, pulling sharply into a parking space.  The phone was still vibrating.  It was Alistair.

"Did I forget something?" Cullen asked, shutting off the engine.

All that came from the other end was a dramatic, suffering sigh.  "Sera quit the band."

He couldn't help rolling his eyes.  "Again?"

"I think she really means it."  Alistair did sound upset, but it was not terribly hard to upset him.  This was the same tone of voice he might use when they didn't put enough extra cheese on the pizza.

Cullen pinched the phone between his ear and shoulder.  "Maybe not."  He pulled his jacket and backpack from the passenger seat and kicked the door shut.  "She came back last time."

"Oh, I don't know," Alistair sighed.  "Practice just wasn't going right anyway and I'm not sure she's really serious...  She said she hadn't picked up any girls from being in the band!  What is that about?"

"Well, neither have I, if we're lodging complaints."  Cullen laughed, but Alistair obviously didn't find it funny.  "Listen," he said, "Don't worry about it.  Either we'll talk Sera back into it, or we'll find a new person.  Someone who doesn't just want dates."   _Although_ some _dates might be nice_ , he thought.  He walked through the glass doors and into the lobby, waving to the receptionist.

"Yeah," Alistair said, "all right.  Teagan and I are going to Blackwall's tomorrow night to look for someone.  Want to come?"

He paused near the dusty rubber tree near the front windows, looking around the quiet lobby.  "I don't know.  Maybe.  I'm at the Center now, I've got to go."

"See you later," Alistair mumbled from the other end.

Cullen signed in at the desk and took his things to the bright, fluorescent back offices to stow his backpack.  He put his ID card in his pocket just in case, since he wasn't officially working.

Sera worked at a bar, he thought, and she was cute and funny.  Surely it was no trouble for her to meet girls.  Something else was the matter, something Alistair didn't feel like telling him, but he had an idea.  Sera never took it as seriously as Alistair, but who did?  Alistair believed in his heart the Runes could be a real thing someday.  Though he loved being in the band, Cullen wasn't so convinced.

He just wanted to play drums.  Even as a baby he would bang on anything he could reach, his parents had always said.  When they got him that drum set for his ninth birthday, it was the best present ever.  Until the next, better kit they got him a few years later.  He played all the time.  Bran used to walk around with his hands over his ears, yelling that he couldn't take it anymore, and little Rosie was his copy—though she would miss her ears for her face, and squeeze her round cheeks together, mumbling, "Can't take it."

He stopped playing when his parents died.  When he could barely sleep.  When the only thing that helped him sleep, and the only thing that got him out of bed, were the pills.

At some point in recovery, they suggested he start playing again.  Everyone said it would be good therapy.  It was around the same time that Alistair wanted to play together again, to pick back up where they'd left off on breaks from military school, when Alistair would stay at his house and they'd stay up all night in that backyard shed, listening to music too loud and playing too loud, until Mia threatened to kill them both if they didn't go to bed.  And now here they were—just the two of them again.

In any case, girls weren't why he was in a band.  Although, lately, he had noticed himself thinking about that.  He was over twenty-four months sober.  He was actually living a life. So perhaps it would be nice to meet a girl.  The right girl, anyway.

But it wouldn't happen at Blackwall's, or any other bar.  Though he wasn't the only sober musician around, it was still a bit of a conundrum that in a band, you typically play in bars.  Alcohol had never been his major problem, but he avoided it now.  He could be around people drinking casually, but a bar was just soaking in it.  Being at a bar when you're sober, and not playing music... it could be pretty boring.  He loved seeing bands, live music was amazing, but sometimes it just wasn't amazing.  Then you'd rather be anywhere else but a bar.  Even at work.  But Cullen liked his work.

He headed through open ground floor space toward the circular courtyard at the back of the building and pulled on his jacket as he opened the doors.  Rounded by tall cement walls, the courtyard needed help.  The cracked planters with their weedy beds were dying in the late autumn weather, and the fixtures and furniture had seen better days.  None of the benches were level, the old cement tables were crumbling, the ashtrays near destroyed.  It was past time for an overhaul.  Luckily, the Center just had a good donation season.

He walked past volunteers and counselors clearing out the planters and picking up debris.  A cheerful, round-faced elven woman in a fuzzy scarf waved to him.  It was Naomi, one of the naturopathic doctors.  She was kind and motherly to him—well, she was to everyone, really.  "You just missed my daughter, Cullen," she called to him with a smile.

And she was very interested in his meeting her daughter.  He'd never even seen her, surely she was nice enough, though he was also sure she had as little interest in being set up with a stranger as he did.  He hadn't been able to tell Naomi that, not in so many words—just begged off every time the subject came up.  But nothing discouraged Naomi.  "That's my bad luck, I suppose," he said.

"Next time!" she threatened happily, waggling her spade at him.

Sister Leliana, the Center's director, stood in the middle of the courtyard, next to a rusty garbage can.  She was leaning on a shovel, trying to light a cigarette while wearing thick, oversized gardening gloves.  When she finally succeeded, she took a long drag and sighed, gazing up at the gray sky.  Even smoking, surrounded by rusty tools and garbage, she looked how he thought a Chantry sister was supposed to look: penitent and hopeful, someone who might understand what the Maker was up to more than the rest of us.

The Center was a Chantry-based organization, though it welcomed all faiths, and because the Chantry was so tied to the military, several Templars and ex-Templars worked and volunteered there—many of them former clients like Cullen himself.  That was the path Cullen had been on, of course, and if he had finished school he certainly would have followed in his father's footsteps and become a Templar, too.  But the sheer number of veterans who came to the Center, who needed their help, made Cullen wonder just what that path might have been like for him.

Leliana spotted Cullen and waved him over.  She held her cigarette in the corner of her mouth while she yanked off the gloves, and stuffed them under her arm.  "Thank you for coming today," she said.  "We've had a good turnout, so much is underway already."

"Golden boy finally shows up, eh?" a raspy voice said somewhere behind him.  Cullen rolled his eyes.  It was Samson, one of the ex-Templars, a peer counselor now.  He'd been through the worst and came out the other side, though he looked as though he barely made it, with his gaunt face and red, tired eyes circled with bruise-dark rings.  He didn't like Cullen, but worse, he didn't respect him.  Samson always something had to complain about.  Cullen wondered just what he had done to piss him off.  "Some of us have been here for hours.  But I'm sure we can find some light work for you to do," Samson said with a smirk.

It wasn't worth getting into it with him.  "What can I get started on?" Cullen asked Leliana.

She squinted, thinking it over.  "Actually, could you get me something to drink first?  I'm so thirsty."

Samson laughed.  "That sounds about right for you," he said, and moved to dig out a rusty planter.

"Don't worry about him, he can be a real ass," Leliana said, digging into her pocket.  She pulled out a few coins to give to Cullen, but he refused them.  She shrugged.  "He does great work, of course.  The clients love him.  But some of them can be asses, too," she whispered.

He bit back a laugh but she was just telling the truth.  "He doesn't bother me," Cullen said.  And it was true.  At one time, someone like Samson would have plagued his thoughts, worn on his nerves.  Though he didn't take it for granted, he was different now.  He'd worked hard to free himself from that, to deal with his emotions.  It was all part of the process.

"That's good," she said.  "You will have to work with him closely if you want to be a counselor."

And that was what he wanted now.  After some time in recovery, Leliana had offered him a job at the Center.  Nominally he was support staff for her, but, in practice, he did anything that needed to be done: everything from writing reports to organizing inventory and supplies to lifting heavy things which needed lifting.  But he wanted to do more for the Center, and the clients.  When day-to-day life became easier, when he could think of himself as a person with a future, he thought maybe he could give back what had been given to him.

"Don't you think the clients will be harder to deal with than my coworkers?"  he asked.

Leliana smirked and shook her head as she stubbed out her cigarette in one of the wrecked ashtrays.  "We'll see.  I got the certification information from the board for you.  It's on my desk.  You can pick it up later," she said, pulling on her oversized gloves.

"Thank you.  Thank you so much," he said.

"Of course.  I'm happy you want to do it."  She tilted her head and observed him a moment.  "You have come a long way.  _You_ know that.  It doesn't matter if others don't see it." She gave him an encouraging smile.

He nodded, because he did not know how to express to her how much she had done, and continued to do, for him.  Though he could start by getting her what she'd asked for.  "I'll, uh, get your drink."  She thanked him and picked up her shovel to get back to work.

Cullen went back inside and down the hall toward the vending machines.  It would be a lot of work, being certified as a counselor, a lot of studying, training, testing.  But he thought this might be the thing he actually wanted to do with his life.  He was grateful to Leliana, for her support, and to have her as a mentor.  She'd taken over the directorship of the Center just as he was entering the program.  Once it was stuffy and clinical; now it was thriving and happy.  She had added more diverse therapies, added the naturopaths and physical therapists, took the clients on more outings.  She wanted to deal with people, not just their addictions.  It had helped him more than he could say.

When he arrived at the drink machine, there was a woman already using it, so he stood behind her to wait.  She was sort of tall for an elf, the tips of her ears peeking through her long, dark hair.  A tote bag and denim jacket sat on the ground near her feet.  He noticed the edges of tattoos on her arms just past her short sleeves, and he noticed that she was very... curvy, and... _and let's not ogle women at the Center, Cullen._   She could be a client, she could be someone's family.  Not cool.  He decided to give his scuffed brown boots a good, long look instead.

"Shit."  The woman in front of him whined, and he heard a thump.  He looked up to see her leaning on the machine, her head on her forearm.

"Um, are you all right?" he asked softly.

She jumped, startled, then turned to face him, eyes wide, hand on her her chest.  "You scared me," she said, with a nervous laugh.  "I didn't know anyone was behind me."

"I'm sorry," he said, and felt himself blush.  She had intense, deep brown eyes, glowing olive skin, and a dimple in her right cheek when she smiled.  She was beautiful.  His heart thumped.

Her smile softened as she looked him.  Then she shook her head, blinking.  "Um, the machine," she said, pointing behind her.  "It ate my money, so..."  She waved her hand at it, as if to wave the whole machine away.

This always happened.  "No, it didn't, it's just— Let me," he said, walking past her to the machine.  He gripped it on each end and shook it, hard, twice.  Nothing yet.  He turned and rammed his shoulder into the side.  They heard the metallic thud and roll of a can dispensing.  

She nodded appreciatively, reaching into the opening and pulling out her drink.  "You seem experienced at this," she said.

"Unfortunately so," he said, adjusting his glasses.  "Are you, um, visiting someone?"  He hoped she was.  He hoped she wasn't a client.  That would be... really inappropriate.  
  
"Yeah, just visiting."  Thank the Maker.  She bent down to pick up her jacket and bag.  "Do you work here?" she asked, and bit her lip.

"Oh, uh, yes. I'm Cullen," he said.  He felt very awkward.  Maybe she didn't care what his name was.  He brushed his hair, which was growing too long and curly, away from his forehead.  He had to say something else.  "So you can find me if this thing needs any, uh, calibrations."

She looked at him, her face blank. Why did he say that?  That was such a stupid thing to say.

" _You're_ Cullen?" she asked.

What did _that_ mean?  "Yeah, is— Is that ok?"

She laughed again.  "No, it's ok, it's... great."  Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she leaned against the machine.  "It's just that, uh, I think you know my mother."  Now she was the one looking down at his shoes.  "Naomi?" she asked.

Of course.  Of course this beautiful woman making him talk like an idiot was the girl he didn't want to meet.  "Really," was all he could say.

"Uh-huh."  She looked embarrassed.  "Sorry," she said, "I know how she can be sometimes."

"Don't be," he said softly.  He wasn't sorry for it.  Not anymore.

"I'm Lana."  She held out her hand.  "Nice to finally meet you."

He shook her hand.  It was soft and warm, how could it be anything else?  Surely it was also beautiful, but he didn't look at it.  His heart thumped again.  "Likewise," he said.

"Well," she sighed.  "I'd better get going.  See you around," she said with a shy smile.

"Right," he said.  He hoped so.

She started to walk toward the exit at the end of the hall, and he watched her go—not ogling this time, just watching.  When she reached the door, she turned to face him again.  "Thanks, Cullen," she said, holding up her drink, walking backward toward the door.

"Anytime, Lana."  He gave her a small wave.  She smiled and walked out the door.

 _Huh_ , he thought.  Which was about the extent of what he could process.  He got two drinks from the machine, one for himself, too.  And he only had to shake the machine once.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! And now we can get into some fluffy romantic stuff.
> 
> I would love to work for Leliana - I just think she'd be a rad boss.
> 
> [Second chapter playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/v61emingwq8jayp21w8vwe73k/playlist/3YroyU8x8BVeKB78gxz3hq) \- The Replacements, Girl in a Coma, Ted Leo, Bettie Serveert & The Modern Lovers
> 
>  
> 
> [I talk about Cullen _(a lot)_ on tumblr](http://skyholdherbalist.tumblr.com/)


	3. Sugar Hiccup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day at the bookstore, with frenzy and flirtations.

This quiet part of downtown Denerim was always dead after 10 a.m., when the office workers and commuters were already at their desks, when early lunches hadn't yet crowded the cafés, when Lana should have been at the bookstore for at least half an hour.  So she had plenty of room to rush down the sidewalk, shrug her falling backpack onto her shoulder, and balance the cup holder sloshing with drinks from the local coffeeshop.  She hoped they made up for being late for work.  They usually did.

What she did not have room to do was dig into her backpack, where she could hear her phone announcing a call, and then a text.  She already knew it was her mother.  If it were important, she'd have left a message.  Anything less than a voicemail was simply a poke in the side to get her attention.  Lana knew what she wanted to talk about: Cullen.

Naomi had clearly been pestering this Cullen guy for as long she had been pestering Lana.  He must have mentioned they met, because the pestering frequency had increased dramatically overnight.  Being set up by your mother with a stranger was a recipe for disaster.  That just wasn't the way you met people.  It didn't matter that he was nice.  And cute.  Hot, actually.  Really hot.  None of that mattered because they didn't know each other, probably had nothing in common beyond being annoyed by her mother.  Nobody that hot could be single, anyway.  Very likely, she'd never even see him again.

In front of The Codex of Thedas, someone had already put out the chalkboard sign for the day:

> _Want to become ridiculously attached to people who don't exist and then mourn their untimely deaths and terrible decisions? Right this way -- >_

A bell clanged against the glass door as Lana entered.  She set the coffees on the front counter and slung her backpack to the ground, lifting her bangs to dry the sweat at her forehead from rushing to work.  She needed to stop hitting the snooze button every morning.  Or at least limit to one snooze.  But when you tell yourself, "Just one more chapter," and then one turns to seven... waking up on time tends to fall to the bottom of the priority list.

Sunlight filtered through the flier-covered shop windows, and settled upon the tables crowded with colorful paperbacks and the light wooden shelves neatly lined with new titles.  It warmed the open space with that lovely, indefinable but very particular smell of thousands of books.

From around a tall shelf, Anders walked toward the counter, his long arms around a stack of books.  He flopped them onto the counter with a grunt and brushed back the limp blond hair that always escaped his hair ties.  The shabby cardigan he wore seemed to hang from his skinny frame.  Lana wished she had brought him some breakfast.  "Morning," he said with a smirk, and picked up his reading glasses.

"Morning!  Is she in the back?"  Lana pulled off her denim jacket, tossed it on the ground with her backpack, and began to wrench the coffees from their holder.

Anders peered at the computer screen in front of him as he scanned the books into inventory.  "Uh-huh," he said dryly.

"Is she freaking out already?"

He looked at her over his glasses.  "What do you think?  She's dusting like crazy.  I keep sneezing," he said, rubbing his nose and sniffling.

Lana passed him his coffee and sighed.  "The event isn't until Friday.  If we clean now, the place will be a wreck by then."

Anders took a sip and cringed.  "This is yours," he said, handing the cup to her.  "Ugh, it's so sweet, how do you drink that?"

"That's how I like it."

"You eat way too much sugar."

" _You_ sound like my mother."

He lifted the lid of his cup and inspected the coffee carefully, sniffing.  "Oh, have you spoken with her?"

"Why?" she asked sharply.  "Did she call here, too?"

"Uh, no?"  He quirked his eye at her while he sipped.  "I wanted to talk to her about the clinic.  I think I've found a place," he said, grinning.  "The rent may be absurd but we'll have to work something out.  Naomi said she knew some people willing to help out—other naturopaths, some massage therapists..."

Anders' eyes lit up when he talked about his clinic.  He had been working on it for over a year, since he quit his medical residency, fed up with the hospital's obsession with money, the way it hurt people who couldn't afford the care they needed.  His idea was simple, but radical: a completely free clinic that provided alternative therapies as well as general care.  Other cities had them, he said, and Denerim needed one.  Somehow he'd met Lana's mother, Lana got him the bookstore job while he put together the clinic, and she was glad.  His easy sarcasm was a blessed change from other, more... anxious personalities in the store.

"If I talk to her, I'll pass it on," Lana said, picking up her backpack, jacket, and the other coffee.  "Let me see what madness is brewing back there."

The madness was a frenzy of decluttering, disinfecting and dusting.  The back room—mostly inventory and storage, with a microscopic table for shipping, and an ancient couch for staff naps—was usually, at best, untidy.  Today it was spotless.  The spot remover herself, Cassandra, was frantically scrubbing at a mark on a shelf which might have just been part of the shelf.  Her dark, cropped hair was tousled wildly, and in place of the buttoned-up shirt and trousers she normally wore were a faded t-shirt and ripped jeans.  Cassandra was beautiful, Lana thought, it didn't matter what she wore—but this look was an improvement, in her opinion.

"Everything all right back here?" Lana called.

Cassandra gasped, startled, then tossed her thoroughly used sponge into a nearby bin.  "Fine," she sighed, standing, "cleaner than when I arrived.  Though there is much to do."

"Brought you some coffee."  Lana held it toward her tentatively, like offering a steak to a lion.  Given the intensity with which she cleaned, Lana wasn't sure Cassandra _needed_ any more coffee.

Cassandra raised a sharp eyebrow.  "How late are you?"  She glanced at the clock and shrugged.  "Could be worse," she said, and took a sip.

"You know," Lana began just as tentatively, "we have a week to get through before he gets here.  Maybe it would be better to clean on Thursday?"

"Oh, we'll clean again on Thursday, before the event," Cassandra said, "no question.  This is just the preliminary cleaning."  So much for that.

The event was a signing for one of the most popular authors in Ferelden, perhaps the most popular in five nations: Varric Tethras.  The tiny Codex of Thedas was hardly equipped to handle the volume of interest this event garnered, but Cassandra would get it done for her store.  She always did.  With the help of Lana and Anders, of course.  Tethras had insisted on small, local stores for this tour, but even so, the Codex was an odd choice.  There were fancier bookstores in Denerim, bigger ones, in better locations.  Lana had a feeling Cass had lobbied hard for this one, because Varric Tethras was her very favorite author—though she would not admit to that, or the lobbying.

This new title was a departure from his usual fiction, a biography of a local Kirkwall rogue turned philanthropist named Garrett Hawke.  After a destitute youth, years of shady deals and frankly criminal behavior, Hawke inherited a fortune from a family connection he didn't know he had.  Rather than assume the mantle of a Kirkwall aristocrat, and rub shoulders with people he used to swindle, he gave away a good deal of the money to social programs and progressive causes.  The rumor was Hawke had even continued to steal from the rich, as it were, and give to the poor, but Tethras left that point up for debate.

Lana picked up a copy of the book from one of the tall stacks on the floor.  "It's not a great title, is it?   _Tale of the Champion?_ "

"His titles are never great," Cassandra replied, "but the book is wonderful.  Captivating.  Hard to believe, really."  She tapped a rhythm on the side of her paper coffee cup, her eyes gleaming.  "I can't wait to ask him which parts he's... embellished."

Cassandra put down her coffee and picked up a dustrag.  "But I cannot be distracted now.  We must clean," she said firmly.  "No dust.  No clutter."

Flipping through the book, Lana stopped at the glossy black and white photos in the center, pausing at an older one of Tethras and Hawke together, clearly inebriated in an absolute dive.  Hawke was handsome, with shaggy dark hair and a devilish grin.  "I don't get the sense that he's very fussy, Cass," she said.  "Everything will be fine."

"Fine is not good enough.  I want it to be perfect," Cassandra replied, her soft Nevarran voice tender.  "This is going to be great for the store.  He's very popular."

And very popular indeed with certain local bookstore owners.  Cassandra had read everything he'd written at least three times, including the purple, overwrought romances that even Tethras tried to ignore.  Lana turned the book over and studied the author's picture.  He had intelligent eyes, a well-lived face, a knowing smile—and a tantalizing amount of chest hair on display.  She held the book up.  "And he's so good-looking.  Don't you think?" she asked, and bit her lip.

Cassandra smiled a moment, tilting her head, but shook it off.  "Oh, you know they make everyone look better than they really do.  You see these photos and think they're gorgeous, and then they actually arrive—ugh," she said, with a disgusted frown, and bent down to dust the legs of a folding table.

So much for that.  Again.  Lana sighed.  Cassandra was painfully single.  Painful only because she knew Cassandra would rather it be otherwise.  Her life would improve with someone to share it.  And so would Lana's, if it made Cass a little less uptight.  Though she wouldn't throw just anyone at Cassandra, she knew someone perfect was out there.

Then it hit her, quite without warning, just how much she sounded like her mother.  This was... disturbing.  She nervously bit a fingernail and decided to change the subject.

"Well, we need some good cleaning music if we're to get anything done, right?"  She woke the sleeping computer connected to the store's sound system, pulled up a player, and scrolled to a playlist she'd made titled _Make Cass Happy Music_.  Nothing soothed her like 1970s lady rock.  When the jagged riff of a Heart song kicked in, Cassandra began to move her hips while she wiped down the door hinges.  Lana moved toward the door, shimmying awkwardly, which pulled a laugh from Cass.  Lana had no rhythm.  She bumped hips with Cassandra and they sang together:

> _And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine_  
>  _My love, the pleasure's mine_  
>  _Let me go crazy on you_

Then, laughing, Cassandra opened the door and pushed Lana through it.  "Now get to work!"

Anders sat on a stool behind the front counter and glanced at Lana worriedly as she approached.  "Is it that bad?  You really think it's a Heart situation?"

She leaned against the end of the counter with her head in her hands.  "She's going to start mopping the ceiling soon.  Anything I can help you with?"

He shrugged, exasperated.  "She kind of already did everything before I arrived.  I suppose you could organize these signing cards for the reserve Tethras books," he said, handing her a stack of cards and a list of names.  She found a pen and began to scan the list, copying each name to a signing card.

"So what's up with your mother?" he asked. "Why don't you want to talk to her?"

Lana groaned and put down her pen.  "She's after me to talk about this guy she wants to set me up with."

"Oh."  He grimaced.

"I met him yesterday, accidentally.  And he's—"  There was really no other way to say it.  "He's really nice and really hot."

Anders furrowed his brow, puzzled.  "Then what's the problem?"

"Well, it's just—"

"You don't want your mother to be right?"

"No," she said laughing, although that was a bit of a lie.  "It's a weird way to meet someone, right?  And he's not my usual type.  All the guys I date are skinny, elfy jerks."

He sniffed and sat up straighter.  "There's nothing wrong with being skinny."

"Oh, of course not," she cooed, stroking his back. "This guy, though..."  She remembered his shy smile, his warm brown eyes.  "He was, you know, _fit_ , had this lovely curly blond hair, a beard, glasses.  He was kind of... beautiful," she sighed.  Oh, well.  Maybe if she saw him again at the Recovery Center she could admire him from afar.

Anders giggled and leaned close to her.  "You mean, like that guy?" he asked, and pointed toward a set of shelves near the back of the store, not very far away.

No.  Couldn't be.  Slowly, hesitantly, Lana turned to look, and saw the curly blond hair, the glasses, the broad shoulders.  Yes.  It was.

"How long has been here?" she hissed.

Anders shrugged, holding back a smile.  "He came in when you were with Cass."

She briefly contemplated sneaking away.  It wasn't that she was afraid Cullen would see her.  She was just afraid to talk to him.  Big difference.  "Oh, shit, do you think he heard me?" she whispered.

"I don't know.  Why is he here?  Is he stalking you?"

"No!"  Then she thought for a moment.  "I don't think so?"

"Do you want me to hide you?" Anders whispered dramatically, and pointed to the floor behind the counter.

That would be utterly ridiculous.  She was being ridiculous.  She looked back to where Cullen stood, wearing a dingy pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt.  He had one hand in his pocket, and stared up at the highest shelf in the science fiction section, a slight smile on his face.  He wasn't rude when they met, or weird.  He was sweet.  He seemed to... like her.  Was that what made her so reluctant?  Just nervous to talk to a cute boy who was interested in her?  Embarrassing.  This wasn't her.

She took a few timorous steps toward him.  "Hi?"

He was taken aback for a moment, then he smiled that shy smile.  "Hello. I... didn't know you were here," he said, and scratched the back of his neck.  He looked as nervous as she didn't want to feel.  "I hope you don't mind my coming by.  You probably think I'm a stalker or something," he muttered.

"No!" she said with an anxious laugh.  "I would never think that."

He looked relieved.  "Your mother told me you work here.  I was in the neighborhood, and—that sounds so lame.  I was _actually_ at the music store a few blocks west," he said, and held up a package of drumsticks.  "And I'd never been here before, so..."  

The horrible fluorescent lights made his hair shine like fine gold thread.  His deep-set eyes were a sweet honey brown.  Creators, he was gorgeous.  "Well," she said, "we always need more customers.  And more readers."  It was impossible not to smile at him.

"Yeah.  Definitely."  He nodded, a real smile of his own.

"So."  She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands suddenly.  "What do you like to read?"

It was a question he looked oddly unprepared for, considering.  "Uh, well, I haven't been doing as much reading as I'd like lately."  He was apologetic.  People often were—nobody read as much as they wanted to, apparently, Lana included.  But that's what bookstores were for, right?  He rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful.  "What do you, uh, recommend?"

Then it was her turn to feel oddly unprepared.  "D-do you like science fiction?" she asked, gesturing to the shelf next to them.  He nodded.  Good.  She had a few ideas there, and she bent over to a lower section to pull out a paperback.

"Have you read this?"  When she handed the book to him, the barest tips of their fingertips brushed.  She swallowed.  "It's, um, the first in a trilogy.  Space opera stuff—military, aliens, great narrative, a lot of interesting characters."  She was rambling, she knew, and couldn't stop.  "Even a bit of romance," she said, and bit her lip, instantly wishing she hadn't.

"Oh." He studied the back of the book carefully, though he didn't appear to be reading it, and a faint blush colored his face.  "That... sounds good."  His hair was longer in the front, and flopped softly against his horn-rimmed glasses.  She had the sudden, terrible urge to brush it from his face.   _Change the subject, fast_ , she thought.

"I've been reading a lot of fantasy lately," she said, turning to another shelf.  "When I was younger I was crazy about fantasy novels."

"Me, too."  He followed close behind her.  "My mom would read them to us when I was a kid," he said with a small smile.

There was a shadow of sadness in his eyes that made her wonder, but she didn't want to pry.  "Yeah.  A good one is really good, you know?"

They wound their way through the shelves, talking about books and little offshoots a book might bring up, and reveal a little about each of their lives, sharing a shy smile whenever they managed to make eye contact.  Lana would pull out a book she thought Cullen might like, then he would enthusiastically agree, and pile it into his arms on top of the drumsticks he carried.

"You play drums?" she asked.

He laughed a little.  "Yeah. I'm in a band.  Sort of," he muttered.

She noticed his arms, which looked strong but sensitive, if arms could look sensitive, dusted with blond hair.  She could imagine him drumming.  It was a nice image.  "Only sort of?"

"We just lost our bassist," he said, adjusting his pile of books, "so we're scrambling a bit."  He narrowed his eyes, thinking.  "You don't happen to play bass, do you?"

Lana laughed.  "No, I can't play anything."  It wasn't a good idea to tell him quite how rhythmless she was.  Perhaps he would find out one day.  And the fact that she was even thinking that... she shook those thoughts away.

"Too bad."  He smiled.

She leaned against a shelf.  "What kind of music does your band play?"

"Kind of..."  He looked to the ceiling as he thought about it.  "Punk.  Ish.  Grungy mess.  Kind of?"

That was... descriptive.  "That's exactly what I like," she said.

"Sure," he said, laughing.

"No, really.  You know—punk, metal, et cetera."

"And Heart?"  He dislodged a free hand and pointed up, in the general direction of a speaker.

"To be honest," she admitted, "that's for our owner.  But I love it, too."

He nodded.  "They're kind of amazing.  The drums are so good.  Not to sound like a cliché," he said.

"They are, though.  Even the big hair 80s stuff. It's great."  She tucked her hair behind her ears and sighed.  Her face actually hurt from smiling.

"I completely agree."  His eyes seemed to roam her face, and roam a little further down, which she didn't mind.  She'd done the same to him.

Then he looked into her eyes.  "We're supposed to play a show on Friday night.  Of course, that's if we find a bassist."  Hugging the pile closer to him, he cleared his throat.  "Would you, um... would you want to come?"

A shaky heartbeat trembled into her throat.  She blinked at him.  "What time?" she asked, her throat dry.  "Because we—I mean, the bookstore has an event that night."

His face fell.  "Oh.  We probably go on around ten."

"We'll be closed by then," she said brightly.

"Great."  He sighed, as though he'd been holding his breath.  She felt as if she had been, too.  "So... how will I let you know if the show is still on?"

And here was a crossroads, where she could pull back, and keep this... thing between them at a distance.  But she didn't want that.  She wanted to reach closer.  "Why don't I give you my phone number?" she asked, and felt suddenly shy.

"Y-yeah."  He nodded vigorously.  "That, uh, would be great."

At the counter, Anders sat on his stool, ignoring everything like he was the bookstore cat.  She wrote down her number on a bookmark and slid it into the science fiction novel.  The stack of books he had was impressive, and she noticed he looked worried as she went to ring them up.  She offered to hold whichever ones he didn't want today, so he could come back again.  Relieved, he took only the space opera, with her number.

He smiled shyly as he went to the door.  "It was nice to see you again, Lana."

She waved goodbye, and after he was gone, leaned on the counter with a sigh.  "He's hotter than I remembered."  That was easy enough to talk about with Anders. But Cullen was nicer than she remembered, too.  He was interesting.  And he was interested in her.

Anders shrugged, his lips pursed.  "If you think so.  Now, when you admit to your mother that she was right, tell her to call me."

"You really think she can help you find money?  Because I've known her my whole life and I don't see the evidence to support this hypothesis," Lana said.

"I don't know," Anders sighed.  "I mean, this is a free clinic.  Everything free.  We have some grants, but—" He brushed stray hair from his eyes.  "Someone's got to dump a ton of cash into it."

Lana nodded, pondering the unlikeliness of that happening.  "So you need someone crazy with a lot of money to throw away?"

Anders grinned.  "Yeah. That would be perfect."

The door bell clanged.  A man walked in, but it felt more like he _arrived_.  He had the air of a troubled but sexy hero, like the misunderstood bad boys in Cass' romance novels.  His leather jacket, rough beard and artfully disarranged black hair only added to fuel to the fire.  Lana and Anders glanced at each other, in a mutual but silent exchange of " _...damn._ "

"Uh, hi," Anders said, uncharacteristically tentative.  "Need help finding anything?"

Even before he spoke, Anders had clearly caught the man's eye, and gave him an entirely too obvious once over.  His brown eyes gleaming, his mouth turned in a roguish smirk.  "I'll let you know if I do," he said, and disappeared deeper into the store.

Anders leaned far over the counter to watch him walk away.  "Now he's hot," he said, and Lana couldn't disagree.  "But," he said as he sat back on his stool, "a bit of a creep. Stalkers and creeps," he sighed, shaking his head.

Lana didn't think he was a creep.  Forward, maybe, she thought as she scrolled through online orders.  He wasn't shy, like Cullen.  She felt her face heat, and her stomach flutter, as their conversation played over in her mind.  The facts were plain, but she had to repeat them to believe them.  He came here because she worked here.  He wanted to see her again.  He liked her.  It wasn't so unreasonable.  She was cute, she could admit that, curvy—and happy about it, intelligent, nice enough.  Why shouldn't he like her?  And still a gentle shock thrummed in her chest when she remembered the way he looked at her.

The man came back empty-handed, and leaned against the counter, smiling at Anders.  Anders put down the book he was scanning.  "Couldn't find anything you wanted?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know about that," the man said with a smirk.  He was positively lascivious.  Anders didn't seem to reciprocate, but his neck flushed pink.  "But I wanted to reserve a few copies of that Tethras book," the man was saying.  "You know, get them signed."

"Okay."  Anders pulled out a reserve card for the books and filled out the title.  "Do you want them signed to you, or just signed by the author?"

The man laughed.  "No, just signed."

"How many?"

He thought a moment.  "50?"

Lana turned to look at him.  That was a lot of copies.  "50.  Okay, great," Anders said, sounding skeptical.  "Do you want us to ship them to you?"

"Oh, no," he said, "I'll be here to pick them up."

"And your name?"

"Hawke."

Anders looked at him over his reading glasses, his face weary.  "Like the book."

The man half-smiled, revealing nothing.  "Uh-huh."

Anders just sighed.  "Okay. Phone number we can reach you at?"

"Well," he said, leaning closer, "I could ask you the same question."

Anders expression had grown wearier.  The pink flush had disappeared.  
  
"Actually, I'll be at the event," the man said. "Just want to make sure I get a few for myself, before they inevitably sell out."

"Yeah, sure," Anders deadpanned, stuffing the card in a drawer.  "You can pick them up then.  Mr. Tethras will have signed all the reserves early."

"Fantastic."  He pushed himself off the counter and gave Anders a smile as he opened the door.  "See you then."

Lana picked up a copy of the Hawke book while Anders cursed under his breath and took out his irritation on reorganizing all the pens.  She flipped to the photo spread in the middle, and saw that they all looked an awful lot like the man who just walked out.  No beard, less fashionable, a little younger, but—  "That's the guy from the book," she said, shoving it into Anders' hands.  "He _is_ Hawke."

"No way."  Anders took off his reading glasses and held up the open book.  "Why would some millionaire go around ordering copies of books about himself?  He doesn't even live in Denerim."  He turned the book all around, peering at the photos.  "This guy's just obsessed with Hawke or something.  Probably wants to be him."

"He likes you."

Anders scoffed.  "And he's also probably a psychopath."

"I just know what I saw," she said with a shrug.  "And the way he looked at you, he likes you."

"Well, going by that metric," Anders replied, sitting down on his stool, "the way he was gazing at you, your stalker is in love with you."  He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow at her, as though he'd just raised her bet in Wicked Grace.

She blushed harder than Anders had at that Hawke's come ons—or whoever he was.  "He's not stalking me," she said, and her voice faltered at the end, as she considered what Anders said.  "Really? You think so?"

Anders laughed.  "I'm just teasing you, I wasn't paying attention," he said, turning back to his computer.  "Oh, you're such an easy mark."

She swatted his arm.   _In love_ was... a rather silly thing to think.  But she didn't need Anders' confirmation.  Cullen liked her.  She knew it.  The flutter in her stomach returned.

Lana was lost in thought again, biting at a nail and staring into the distance, when Cass came to the front.  "What are you both doing behind the counter?"  Her face was flushed, her brow glistening, a large smudge of dust across one of her beautiful cheekbones.  She put her hands on her hips.  "We must get ready for Friday," she said, her voice rising with panic.

Anders turned to her with a pained, guilty look.  "Oh, Cass.  Bad news."  He folded his hands.  "Varric Tethras' publicist called.  The event's off."

Her eyes went wider than Lana had ever seen.  Her neck twitched.  "What?" she gasped.

"Well..." He bit his lip.   "He heard how dusty your shelves are.  Terrible for his allergies."

Cassandra's face shifted, slowly, frighteningly, from horror to a narrow-eyed cold rage.  But she merely shook her head at him and walked away.

Anders laughed again.  "But she's the easiest."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please love all these idiots as much as I do. Comments and kudos are life-sustaining. 
> 
> huge thank you to [sirinial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirinial/pseuds/sirinial) & [kagetsukai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagetsukai) for naming the bookstore! Cute chalkboard sign message lovingly poached from the Curious Iguana bookshop.
> 
> [Third chapter playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/v61emingwq8jayp21w8vwe73k/playlist/65WxXjGiyH2T8tgJPwSgHh?si=55ZBewgFQ1SRPbaQrygi3Q): Cocteau Twins, Stone Roses, Paul Westerberg, Blondie and, of course, Heart.


	4. Don't Ask Why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teagan and Alistair are bored and out of place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be one half of a chapter but it grew... so the next chapter is coming up real quick. 
> 
> note: Rowan Guerrin is not Maric's wife in this AU because that makes things more complicated and I'm just trying to have fun here. Thanks for your time.

The blinds were closed, the overhead fluorescents were off, and the room was roughly as cold as a meat locker.The only light was a sterile blue screen shining onto the conference table, the only sound a presenter mumbling something about bad growth in a good economy.Or was it good growth in a bad economy?Teagan wasn’t really listening.No one was.

Alistair slumped beside him, the hood of his sweatshirt covering his eyes, head lolling against the padded leather chair.Teagan elbowed him in the ribs before his snoring grew too loud.He couldn’t blame him.It was all Teagan could do to stay awake.His coffee had grown cold.He drank it anyway and hoped the meeting would be over soon. 

Teagan had tried to be a good role model for Alistair.It wasn’t necessarily his strong suit.He’d spent the majority of his adult life in the back of vans, in smoky bars, doing questionable things, having questionable girlfriends.He had not voluntarily awakened before noon until he was over thirty.But his life was very different now.After his band split up, he’d done the journeyman thing for a while, gigged with other bands, did some studio work—but it wasn’t the same.Then Eamon had offered him a job working for him, when he was a vice president at the Theirin Group.Teagan could work from home, most of the time, and actually have some money for once. 

Somehow ten years had passed and he barely noticed.

Teagan glanced around the conference table at the other attendees: Cailan, handsome and blond and fit, a magazine-perfect young CEO since he took over after Maric died, though it was a good thing no magazine was here to capture him nodding off in his chair; Vivienne de Fer beside him, his COO, with perfect posture and poise, utterly stunning, all business but still very cool.It was no secret who actually made things happen in the company.Past them, a slew of suits he didn’t recognize.Eamon had not shown.That was for the best. 

And at the end of the table, he and Alistair, in t-shirts and jeans.They looked like interns who would never be hired.At least Alistair had the excuse of being young.He supposed he should be happy someone else there stuck out as much as he did, but he wasn’t.Alistair shouldn’t have had to be there, even if he was getting what appeared to be a very good nap.The family company would always be a viper’s nest for Alistair.Cailan didn’t act like a brother to him, but he said he wanted Alistair there, to be included.Maric had not even done that much. 

Alistair had not been raised with the family, and some people would never consider him part of it.Anyone could see that Alistair looked very different from Cailan, different from the portrait of Maric that hung in the lobby.The Theirins were fair-haired, fair-skinned, light-eyed.Alistair was none of those things.

Eamon always said he kept Alistair away for his own sake, but was that really it?He thought for a while Eamon had been right, because Alistair did hate it, and couldn’t pretend otherwise 

Somehow the presentation was still going.Now the room was being asked to turn to page 12 of their handouts, but no one did. 

At least Teagan had learned how to fake it at a real job.Perhaps that was worse.He was just a sellout.His family was wealthy, it had been no secret, but among poor punks and starving artists, he always felt like an imposter.Someone who could always go back home.Someone whose parents would be thrilled for him to leave the Howling Doglords—his mother could barely say the name without cringing—and live the life he was supposed to.When his father died, he nearly did.But Eamon had been there to care for their mother, until she passed.Teagan could keep living his dream.As far as he had known, Eamon was happy with that, happy to take over what was left of the family holdings.He was good at it.Teagan wasn’t. 

But he didn’t stick with the Doglords to be a rebel, or to hide from responsibility.He loved the music.He still did.It just wasn’t his life anymore.Now his life was work, and Alistair.

The lights flickered on.The mumbling had come to an end.Vivienne gave a nearly imperceptible tug on Cailan’s sleeve, and he shot awake. 

“Ah, thank you so much for that enlightening report.So much to leverage for future plans,” he said with a bright smile.Teagan was certain Cailan had not heard a word of it.“As long as we remain agile, and foster that organic growth,” he said, “we can effectively capitalize and disrupt.”He beamed at the room, but his earnestly fake speech was only met with shuffles of paper from the rest of the table, and a yawn from Alistair. 

“In terms of competition, realistically we have none.The Mac Tir Fund wants to eat our lunch, but we won’t let them, eh?”Cailan’s attempt to rally the troops fell flat.“And as for Guerrin Global,” he said with a snarl, “they’re the most useless f—”

“The less said about them,” Vivienne interrupted, “the better.Let’s break, shall we?”

Teagan had nothing to say about Guerrin Global.He followed Alistair to the buffet tables in slience.

The group of suits stumbled toward the coffee pots, or the catered platters of sandwiches and cookies.Cailan left to stew in his own office, assistants in tow.Vivienne crossed her arms and sighed.Teagan felt sorry for her—running an multinational company when you weren’t actually in charge was a massive task, even for someone as cunning and capable as her. He left Alistair to inspect the sandwiches and tapped her on the shoulder.“Want to get some air?” he asked, nodding toward a balcony.

They were high enough to overlook Denerim’s downtown, where new met old: glassy, towering skyscapers punctuated the sky, seated among centuries-old chantries and mansions turned into museums.Teagan opened the door for Vivienne onto the wide concrete balcony.They leaned against the rail and looked out over the city.Vivienne sighed.“Brilliant suggestion, darling.It’s days like these I wish I still smoked.”

Teagan smiled.“Doesn’t seem to be going so badly.A little sleepy, perhaps.” 

“Oh, it’s not the meeting.It’s your dear brother,” she said pointedly. 

Ten years ago, Eamon had left the company and started his own, a rival, potentially violating a noncompete clause, potentially taking advantage of insider information.That was for the lawyers to figure out.It was around the time he had signed over Alistair’s trusteeship to Teagan.Around the time he married Isolde.

Eamon always acted as though he was owed for taking in Alistair. As far as Teagan knew, the Theirins wanted to avoid scandal, lawsuits, eventual fights over wills and estates.They had paid off Alistair’s mother, but wanted to keep Alistair close.The mother didn’t want any part of it, and split, but left him behind.Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing by him, that he’d have a better life.Alistair was in the middle—wanted, but not.The Theirins had an heir, and didn’t need a spare, but strung him along, just in case. 

The trust fund money was probably cold comfort. 

Teagan shook off the memories.“What’s he done now?We don’t speak, you know.”

“I am well aware of that.”Vivienne sipped her coffee.“He still owns a considerable stake here, and though he doesn’t speak to you, he does apparently meet with certain board members.”She looked back into the conference room.Some of the board were there, nervously conversing in a corner.“We think he’s attempting some kind of takeover,” she said.Her cool tone betrayed no fear, but her repeated glances behind them did. 

“Is it really that serious?” he asked.“Surely Cailan has the board’s confidence.”Teagan thought that was true, anyway, though he wasn’t sure at all.He didn’t know what Cailan actually did.Whether he was successful or not.It was all a mystery to him, if he were being honest. 

“No one is sure of anything at present.And Cailan’s head is somewhere else.”Vivienne smiled wickedly at him.“He’s thinking of going into politics.” 

“That’s… terrifying,” Teagan said. 

“Ah, but it would be perfect for me,” she said.“If I could make a success of him there as well as here, I’d have done the impossible twice.” 

There was more drive in one of Vivienne’s beautiful, slim fingers than he had in his whole body.“Are you sure you need him?” he teased.“I’d much rather vote for you.” 

She looked at him with a shy smile, practiced but still charming.“Flatterer.And I’ve considered it.”

A warm breeze spun into the balcony and ruffled Teagan’s hair.It was welcome after the refrigerator of a conference room.“If you two are trying to run the world, who takes over here?”

“You could,” Vivienne suggested.

He laughed, but stopped when he realized she hadn’t joined him.“You’re… not serious?I’d be awful.” 

“Oh, have some confidence, darling.Could Alistair be persuaded?He is family, after all.It would be an easier sell.”They both looked back in through the glass doors at Alistair, standing by the buffet, tiny sandwiches in both of his large hands, and one in his mouth.Vivienne waved to him. 

“It wouldn’t be good for him,” Teagan said.“His head is somewhere else, as well.His band.”

“He wants to be like you.”Vivienne touched his arm.“How sweet.” 

Teagan had never considered that before.It could be true.They’d always had music in common.Whenever Teagan came home, Alistair was eager to see his guitar, learn about where he’d toured, hear new music.It was obvious to him, even then, that Alistair was an afterthought to Eamon.Sometimes he had a half-wild idea to take Alistair with him on tour, but he never did.Now he wished he had done it.It couldn’t have been much worse for the kid. 

He enjoyed Alistair’s band, the Runes.It was fun to hear them come together, and also fall apart.It was nostalgic.But he didn’t want to become too involved, didn’t want to be the old guy butting in, acting like he’d done it all before.An imposter, again.

Alistair joined them on the balcony, eating a chocolate chip cookie, looking a little more awake. 

“Darling, we were just talking about your band.How goes it?” Vivienne asked warmly.

Alistair shrugged.“Right now, not great.No bass,” he said.“But, uh… we’re working on it.  Going to look for someone tonight.”Teagan gave him an encouraging smile.

“Well, I wish you the best of luck, my dear.”She reached forward and brushed a cookie crumb from Alistair’s cheek.

“Um, thank you,” he mumbled.He was blushing.Vivienne had that effect on people. 

“What about you?Are you still making music, Teagan?” Vivienne asked, leaning back against the balcony rail.

Nothing worth talking about, anyway.He shook his head. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, “because I was quite a fan of your band.” 

Teagan searched her face for a tell, since he assumed she must have been kidding him.“Not really,” he said.

“Yes, really.We used to sneak away from boarding school to see punk shows at this absolute hole in Montsimmard.”

“Le Fanfaron?”He gaped at her.

“The very hole.It was marvelous,” she said to Alistair, and he laughed.“I saw them three times.Would have been four, but I was caught once.”

Teagan shook his head.Vivienne, the model of professional elegance, used to sneak around to watch him sweat on stage.Now he worked for her.“You never told me.How long have we known each other now?”

She shrugged mischievously, and took Alistair by the arm.“There’s a lesson for you, Alistair,” she said as she led them back to the conference room.“Always keep a few things secret, so you can reveal them at choice moments.Never tell everything all at once.”Alistair nodded obediently and opened the door for her. 

It was interesting advice.Vivienne would make a much better role model for Alistair, Teagan thought, and followed them inside. 

Cailan returned, and the meeting went on for another hour before the presenters ran out of slides.Everyone stood and gathered their papers, murmured a few informal commitments before leaving.Then the heavy double doors swung open. 

In walked Eamon and Isolde. 

Teagan stared at them from a far corner.He had not seen Eamon in… he couldn’t remember how long.More than a year.It had been much longer since they had spoken anything beyond a hello.He didn’t avoid Eamon, it was just understood between them.They may be brothers but they would never be friends again.If they ever were.

Cailan fumed, silent, while Vivienne stood between him and Eamon.She held her head high.“May I ask,” she said coolly, “why you are here?You haven’t attended a meeting in years.Likely, that is because you are no longer employed here.You have your own small concerns, surely.”

Eamon smiled, but his eyes didn’t.“I am perfectly allowed to attend any meeting I like,” he explained, “because of the percentage of this company I still own.Surely you know that, Madame de Fer.” 

“What I know is that you won’t own those shares for long, and the meeting is over.”She looked from Eamon to Isolde.“Arriving this late is quite unfashionable.Pardon us.” Vivienne left without another word, Cailan following close behind.Eamon sighed and looked around the room.When he spotted Teagan, Eamon gave him a hard stare, then shook his head sadly.Across the room, a few board members were eager for his company and he graciously bestowed his attention.

“ _Bonjour_ , Teagan.” 

Somehow Isolde had approached him without his noticing.She stood beside him, polished, adult, sparkling with expensive jewelry.The outfit she wore probably cost more than Teagan had ever spent on clothes in his life. 

“Hello, Isolde,” he said.He hoped his smile did not look half as pained as it felt.

She had changed so much.Isolde had always been beautiful, but it was different now, all the harsh edges smoothed away.Before, she was wild and decadent.The things they used to get up to…

“How are you?” he asked.“How is your son?” 

She glanced backward at Eamon.“Connor is wonderful.Growing like a weed, you know?”She adjusted the smooth leather strap of the handbag over her shoulder.“And I am quite busy myself, helping with the business.” 

Isolde always had a mind for that.She should have been the Doglords manager—she did a lot of the work their actual manager didn’t.And she was good at it.They played better venues with her around, made more money, and never got ripped off.She was a one-woman publicity machine.Isolde toured with them, and he was never lonely.She came home with him for Satinalia every year.His parents liked her.He had felt so lucky. 

“Glad to hear it.”She did not respond.He supposed she expected a different reaction.He found himself awkwardly shifting his feet, scratching his head.His heart was racing.Why was she talking to him like they were old work friends?Was this her idea of reconciliation?If that were the case, she didn’t seem interested in asking about him.

Perhaps it was obvious.She could just look at him.He had hardly changed at all.Older, more tired maybe, but no more mature.The contrast she provided made that very clear.

Isolde seemed to realize he had nothing else to say, excused herself, and joined Eamon and the board members. 

When the band split, and Teagan was too burned out to make a solo career, she had been unhappy.She had been unhappy when he began to work at the Theirin Group, under Eamon.It took up so much of his time.They seemed to be growing apart, which was… natural, if unpleasant.Teagan guessed, at the time, she found herself directionless, too, and he felt guilty about that.He had been so focused on his own pursuits, he had never encouraged her to look for something of her own to pursue.

Then, apparently, she found it.She told him she was leaving him.For Eamon. 

Conservative, corporate, middle-aged, rich Eamon.Eamon who took control of everything when their mother died.Eamon who had always seemed content to be in the background.Eamon, his brother.They spent a lot of time together, she had said, while Teagan was working.As though that were an explanation. 

Eamon had changed, too.His company took up so much of his time, he wanted to sign off Alistair’s trusteeship to Teagan.So he had said.In reality, he seemed happy to be free of what little responsiblity he had taken, when Alistair was a little older, and he could no longer use it to further attach himself to the Theirin holdings. 

Isolde seemed happy to be rid of it, too.Of all the things they had got wrong, Alistair was the worst. 

Alistair stood to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets, wearing a nervous frown.He looked like he was trying to make himself invisible.A difficult job for someone as tall and broad as him.Eamon had not even acknowledged him.It would have made Teagan angrier if it were not so predictable. 

Both of them had ended up here because of family.Teagan and Alistair were not related, but they were family now, closer than their blood relatives.In the beginning, Teagan was terrified, but determined.He had no idea how to be a _dad_.He couldn’t keep a plant alive—some days he could barely keep himself alive.But he could be Alistair’s friend, like he’d always been.Somehow they got by. 

Now Alistair was an adult.Soon he would be 25, and the trusteeship would be over.Teagan didn’t know what Alistair would do then.Teagan didn’t know what _he_ would do then.Everything changed around Teagan.He stayed the same. 

He could do something now, though.The meeting was over.He could leave.  He could get Alistair out of here.

He turned to Alistair.“Are you still hungry?” he asked.“I didn’t eat anything yet.”

Alistair didn’t respond.He stared at the floor, lost in thought. 

“Alistair?” Teagan prodded. 

“Yes?”Alistair looked up, surprised.“Hungry.Yes, I am.Always.”He forced a smile. 

Teagan sighed.  "Come on, let's get some real food."  They walked toward the doors, past milling board members in identical suits, past muffled conversations that interested neither of them, past Eamon and Isolde and everything they both wanted to get away from.  "What do you want to eat?"  

“Burgers.Or, um, maybe Chinese.What do _you_ feel like?” Alistair asked. 

These were the easier decisions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back at it. Thank you for reading. Comments are appreciated and loved and put in my little museum of comments which is small but classy. 
> 
> thanks to kagetsukai for naming Teagan's band ♥
> 
> [Fourth chapter playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/v61emingwq8jayp21w8vwe73k/playlist/6uhsvCttbBvKIYGtNB5BU0?si=7Ip8e5CfQOqEijJv0DkOIw): The Damned, X-Ray Spex, PUP, Johnny Thunders, Replacements


End file.
